Thursday, December 22, 2011

"The Little Christmases" by Louise Lee Outlaw

Here's a poem by my mother entitled "The Little Christmases". It appeared originally in The Lutheran, Vol. 9 No. 24 (December 15 1971), pp. 6-7.

Christmas is least of allThe wreath on the doorThe lights on the treeAnd the block on the calendarMarked 25.

Christmas is the dayA week after ChristmasWhen the tinsel lies in sad sparklesAll over the houseAnd the tree droops, forsaken,And the ornaments are once again just thingsTo put away --And a little boy comes to you and says:"I'll help, Mom."

Christmas is the day in FebruaryWhen the snow closes your houseFrom the world and your boy-man goes forth to shovelAnd the phone rings and the aged neighbor says:"Just want to tell you about your son:He shoveled my walk, he wouldn't take a cent,I offered, but he wouldn't take a cent."

Christmas is the day in springWhen your husband comes through the kitchen doorAnd says, "You look like a little girl,"And hands you the first crocusTo put in a jelly glass on the table.

Christmas is the wedding anniversaryWhen everything goes wrong.The child is sick; the dress, the special dressStays drooping in the closet, and the danceIs never danced, nor the wine drunk,And in between thermometer and doctor calls,The two friends come, bearing a flower potWith three geraniums Dug from their garden."Everybody's got to have an anniversary,"The two friends say.

Christmas is the summer night with the band on the pierAnd Sigmund Romberg's bright blare in your ears,And far below, the dark waves' orchestration,And your husband turns to you and says,"Next year we'll have a boy in college."And you look at each otherIn wonder and sadnessThe salt on your cheeksIs from the leaping ocean spray.If ocean spray can be so warm.

Christmas is the private timeOn any night of the yearWhen grief strikes, loss invades,Hurt shatters, and the heart,Groping for solace,Stumbles on the memory of a smileSmiled years ago,Or the echo of a gentle voice,Or a kindness that dropped upon you,Sudden as a star ...All the little Christmases come back to you,And reaffirm the blessedness of life.

Christmas is least of allThe wreath on the doorThe lights on the tree,And the block on the calendarMarked 25.